


Nighthawks

by spookyknight



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-01-26 15:36:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1693523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyknight/pseuds/spookyknight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three weeks ago, he held the door open for her as she was leaving the diner. Last Thursday, she smiled at him as he passed by her booth. Tonight is the first time they’ve properly spoken. It’s a step forward. He’ll take it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Strangers in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> thank you rudennotgingr for the beta

There’s a video cassette tape somewhere in his grandfather’s house of John, upon graduating secondary school at the tender age of eight, saying “When I grow up, I’m going to invent time travel.”

Twenty years later, it feels like this is the closest he’s ever been. Eating breakfast in the dead of night at a retro American-style diner after a particularly successful applied physics laboratory experiment. If he had to pin a name to it, he’d call it _hope_.

Tonight marks the ninth Tuesday in a row and it’s by far the best. The late autumn air is perfectly crisp and the sky is cloudless; if not for the lights of the city, he’d surely be able to spot the stars. Daniel the fry cook put an extra pancake on his short stack, Penny the waitress refilled his coffee with a knowing smile before he could even ask, and he’s caught the blonde in baggy sweats looking his way at least three times.

As far as he can tell, the blonde is the only other consistent regular at this hour. He doesn’t know her name, but every night he’s come to Nighthawks she’s been here, tucked into her booth with a full breakfast spread and a side of chips. John has no idea what she really does during the day when she isn’t eating brekkie after midnight, but he has a whole life story made up for her, if only in his head.

At some point last month he’d gotten tired of his grandfather trying to fix him up with “nice young girls” -- granddaughters of his fellow pensioners -- and the mysterious blonde was upgraded from diner patron to imaginary girlfriend. Any excuse to not appear single in front of his meddling grandad.

Normally, his invented blonde girlfriend would play on her phone and eat her food without much regard for her fellow diners, but today she seems a bit more animated. She peruses the other occupied tables until her gaze lands on him again.

Their eyes meet and his heart either stops or starts beating double… he can’t tell. She scoops up her plate and stands, walking across the restaurant towards him. His stomach plummets, a sense of dread washing over him. She’s found out. He has no idea how, maybe her grandparent has looser lips than his own, but somehow she’s discovered the fictitious relationship he’s concocted between them and now she’s coming over to slap him, call him out for the pervert he is, and ban him from this diner for life.

John wills the linoleum floor to reach up and swallow him like some sort of living plastic creature. It doesn’t. The blonde crosses the room and stands before him, never breaking contact with his eyes.

“Syrup.”

His mind doesn’t process the word, all brain activity is focused on remembering how to breathe. She raises a perfect eyebrow expectantly and he stares blankly at her.

“What?”

She shakes her head, chuckling as she points to the condiment. “I want the syrup. Penny left it on your table.”

“Oh!” He scrambles to pick up the container. “Here you go.”

He offers her the small carafe with a polite smile. It’s progress. Three weeks ago, he held the door open for her as she was leaving. Last Thursday, she smiled at him as he passed by her booth. This is the first time they’ve properly spoken and he doesn’t want to push fate into any overtures. Sharing syrup is an acceptable step forward and he’ll take it.

Though, if fate decides to smile down upon him this glorious night, he’s not opposed.

The young woman takes the syrup and stands with both hands full for a long moment, as though deciding. Then, she promptly sits down in the chair opposite him. Her purse hits the floor, her plate drops to the table with a short clatter, and she starts pouring a healthy dose of maple syrup over her waffle.

“So what’s your story, Doctor?”

John blinks, confused, until he realizes he’s still wearing the white coat that he never remembers to remove when he leaves the lab.

He probably _should_ tell her he’s not a doctor yet (he’s nearly finished his coursework but then there’s still a dissertation between him and his PhD) but he won’t. He enjoys hearing his future title out of sequence. It’s a bit like time travel. A premonition of things to come.

He _could_ tell her of the child prodigy whose dreams were cut short by his parent’s death. About the years in between spent running from the reality of losing his family and the slow path back to London. The master’s thesis that landed his big break; making him chemical engineer at Vitex by day and doctoral candidate by night.

But that’s a heavy load on a stranger and that’s not how he wants to them to start. It’s not often _he_ gets to be mysterious these days, and he finds he likes the potential of it.

John licks his lips, gathering his thoughts together into a decision.

“I’m a mad scientist.”

She manages an inquisitive look around a forkful of waffle and he flashes a manic grin to sell the label.

“Okay.” The blonde reaches across the table for his mug, boldly putting her lips to the rim. “What’s your evil plan?” She takes a sip and makes a displeased face, presumably because of the sugar-to-coffee ratio, but he melts all the same. “Gonna use robots to take over the world? Seeking immortality? Or maybe you’re an alien.”

She narrows her eyes, regarding him suspiciously.

He frowns in mock offense. “Just because I’m mad doesn’t mean I’m evil.”

With a smirk she replaces his mug and leans back in the chair.

“Mad scientists are always evil.”

“Are not.”

“Fine.” She lifts her chin smugly. “Name one.”

John wracks his brain, searching his memories of childhood comics, cartoons, and movies for an example that fits. Just when she’s starting to look entirely too self-satisfied with her supposed victory, he remembers a name.

“Dr. Manhattan.”

She scoffs. “You made that up.”

“I did not!”

“And I’m supposed to trust the villain to tell the truth?” She reaches into the pocket of her hoodie and pulls out her phone. “Luckily the heroine has the Internet.”

The blonde types on the touch screen with one thumb and shovels bites of syrup-soaked waffle with her other hand. The sweatshirt, like her pants, is loose and possibly a size too big for her. The cuffs are pulled halfway up her forearms, exposing a tantalizing expanse of skin at her wrist. John wonders when it was he became a Victorian gentleman, affected by a mere glimpse of naked flesh.

He tears his eyes away from her before he memorizes each strand of hair that’s fallen out of her messy ponytail. He’d like to tell her he’d conquer the universe and hand it over to her if that’s what she wanted.

“I’m pretty sure you can’t self-appoint yourself the hero,” he says instead.

She grins, a full smile that shows nearly all her teeth and a maddening hint of tongue. “Someone’s gotta stop your heinous scheme.”

“Oh, I’m _heinous_ now?” He’s back to feigning offense and she laughs for a moment before pouting at the screen. “What does it say?” He leans forward, grabbing for the phone. “Let me see.”

She holds her arm up straight, keeping the device safely out of his reach.

“No.”

Her tone is commanding but the smirk belies her seeming annoyance.

“Are you hiding the truth from me?” He makes another half-hearted swipe after her phone. “Not very heroic of you.”

She harrumphs and concedes defeat with a slump of shoulders. “You got lucky.” A pause. “ _Doctor_.”

Right. Doctor Manhattan. Well, now the nickname’s stuck. He likes it. Almost as much as her.

As she brings her phone back down to eye level, she catches the time and sighs.

“I gotta go.” She stashes the phone and digs some cash out of her wallet, leaving it on the table as she stands from her seat. “Thanks for the syrup.”  

He nods, smiling brightly. “Thanks for the company.”

She beams and it’s nothing short of angelic. Then, impossibly, she leans over and plants a soft kiss on his cheek.

“I’ll see you Thursday, yeah?”

He stares, dumbfounded. She graces him with one last smile before turning away. If he wasn’t planning on coming back Thursday night after class before, he sure as hell is now.

John watches her sashay through the door with her oversized handbag and whatever’s left of his heart. He was infatuated just watching her across the room. Now, it’s dangerously possible he’s in love.


	2. Witchcraft

He’s hit a wall. It shouldn’t bother him as much as it does, John’s not really supposed to start on his own research until after the final examinations. But he was making so much progress, spending his non-class weeknights exploring radical theories, examining every foolish possibility his imagination could dream up.

The calculations spun wildly for a while before the existing body of thought was far behind and he was left standing on new territory yet uncharted. With no data or projections to back up his hypotheses, he’s drawing a blank as to how to proceed.

He scribbles down open ended questions in his notebook as he sips the sweetened coffee cooling in its mug, hoping one line of inquiry or another will divulge a path forward.

Whatever idea he might have contrived next escapes as he catches sight of his blonde companion through the diner window. She’s got a raincoat but no umbrella and is she running through the rain, the downpour soaking her hair. Laughing, she barrels through the door with a relieved sigh at reaching shelter.

When she reaches their table, she peels off the dripping outer layer, tossing both the coat and her purse into the booth and sliding in after them.

“I thought of another one,” she says.

“Oh?”

She smiles, an excited spark dancing in her eyes. “Doc Brown. Y’know, ‘Back to the Future.’”

“Right.”

A delighted giggle bubbles up in her throat as she no doubt imagines him with frazzled white hair.

“Should’ve thought of that before.” He shakes his head. “But I have this… this curse. I can never see the obvious, even when it’s staring me in the face.”

John heaves an exasperated sigh, staring down at the physics book as though it might impart the answer to him telepathically. Stranger things have happened. His companion reaches a hand across the table and shuts the text.

He raises an eyebrow. “I was reading that.”

“More like trying to burn it with your eyes.”

She isn’t wrong about that. At this point, he’d very much like to chuck the textbook into space, where it might find its untimely death in a nearby supernova.

The blonde leans forward, resting her arms on the table and capturing his gaze.

“What’d you do today?”

“I had work and class and then I came here.”

She takes a sharp breath, lifting her chin. “I saved a man’s life.”

“All in a day’s work for a hero.” He smirks and she graces him with a tongue in cheek smile that makes his heart skips a beat. “How’d you save his life?”

“He asked me where the Hard Rock Cafe was. I gave him directions to The Berkeley.”

John laughs. “And that rescued him from mortal danger?”

“Yeah.” She leans back a bit, fixing him with an incredulous look. “I mean, think about it. Nice bloke, mid-forties, American, or… hmm, maybe Canadian. Hard worker, serious type. Finally took this vacation on his cardiologist’s advice to lower his blood pressure. He eats a greasy burger from Hard Rock, it upsets his stomach, ruins his vacation, a week later when he’s back home he has a heart attack and is a goner.”

He narrows his eyes, finding himself somewhere between doubtful and impressed by the way she’s spun these mundane events. He always has trouble figuring out if she’s being serious or having him on.

“Did this random man show you his medical record?”

“No, but I’ve got an eye.” She taps her temple with an index finger and affects an enigmatic smile. “The point is, it’s the little things. You probably did something amazing today too, and you don’t even know it.”

The waitress, Lucy today, brings her regular meal to their table and he suddenly notices she’d never ordered. The staff can simply anticipate her routine. The blonde thanks Lucy and immediately starts on the chips.

Because chips are only good when they’re fresh, hot and crisp from the fryer. She can tolerate a cooled waffle, tepid meat, or even lukewarm coffee, but never cold chips. It’s one of the disjointed pieces he’s gathered these past few weeks, with the hope of solving the puzzle that is his late night companion.

They artfully avoid the usual pitfalls of small talk -- what they do, where they live; whether they attend church on Sundays or how much money they earn in a year. He doesn’t know her address or occupation, yet in a lot of ways he feels he knows her better than most of the people that have wandered in and out of his life.

He enjoys their regular encounters more than he’s brave enough to admit. She fascinates him -- her hopeful demeanor, daring behavior, and completely unique perspective on all things. His companion is an undeniably positive influence on his life. Even after so short a time, it’s become hard to imagine his life without her.

While she eats, she chats freely about the leak in the ceiling of her flat that’s cropped up thanks to all this rain and he, in return, rambles on about weather patterns and climate change. The conversation is light and unhurried, the subject matter less important than the fact they’re enjoying being in one another’s presence.

“What _is_ this?” She swipes the notepad still sitting in front of him and makes a face at the characters scrawled on the paper. “It looks like an incantation to summon the beast from the pit.”

He huffs and snatches it back. “It’s physics. Proposed equations of spacetime geometry speculating the quantum mechanics of time travel.”

“Well just be sure when you figure it out, you travel to the future.” At his questioning look she adds, “I’m pretty sure in the past they’d take one look and have you burned at the stake.”

He rolls his eyes in mock affront and she giggles, pleased with her own joke.

“Why’s it got you so grumpy?”

“I’m stuck. My research has hit a dead end.” He sighs mournfully.

His companion shrugs. “Bend the rules.”

She says it so confidently, as though it’s elementary -- and maybe it is. He’s been so bogged down with evidence and precedent that he didn’t even think, he didn’t consider…

John shakes his head. “What?”

“I dunno.” She chuckles, rolling her eyes playfully. “I didn’t exactly ace science in school.”

“No.” His mind reels, chasing the spark of inspiration that fizzled a moment before. The thought is fleeting, so progressive and ephemeral he can’t seem to hold on to it. “Say that again.”

“Bend the rules? I just figure if you’re mad you don’t have to follow the laws of science or whatever.”

She’s right, oh… she is so _right_ she doesn’t even know. He’s on the boundaries of established science, and where there’s no parameters yet, he’s just going to have to make them up.

“You’re a genius!”

She snorts. “Tell my boss that.”

He will, if that’s what she wants. He’ll write letters of recommendation for her to Oxford, Harvard, MIT; of the mad, wonderful woman more clever than all the so-called experts in the world.

_Bend the rules._

He scribbles it down, along with a flurry of other notes. Stream of consciousness nonsense he’ll decipher later. One hand ruffles through his hair and he doesn’t realize he’s babbling aloud until her good-natured laugh rings out across the table.

He must look a sight -- every bit the mad scientist she claims him to be. And _her_ … damp-haired and rosy-cheeked with a wide smile and sparkling eyes… she’s the best assistant he could ever ask for.

Too soon, she’s checking the time on her phone

He casts a disparaging glance at his umbrella, useless now that the rain has stopped. If only the storm lasted a bit longer, they might have shared that bit of shelter from the elements as they walked together to her next destination.

His companion leaves her money on the table and wishes him luck before disappearing back into the night.

With a sigh, John flips back to review his notes and catches sight of the doodles in the margins of the paper. Rough sketches of the girl that was so recently sitting across from him. They’re a poor substitute for the real thing, a warm and spirited presence in living color.

As the weariness of the day begins to catch up with him, he packs up his belongings with one last look at his drawings, knowing that face will surely follow him into his dreams.


	3. June in January

John blows into the cradle of his hands, trying to ward off the bitter chill. His warm breath clouds in the cold air, providing little warmth to his freezing fingers. He hates waiting.

He longs for the temporal weather of fall, to reclaim the season that saw late nights at the diner with his beautiful blonde. The biting winter wind stings with regret. He wishes he found the restaurant earlier in the semester, that he’d spoken up sooner… that’d he’d at least asked her name.

So lost in the joy of those last few weeks of the semester, he just assumed it would go on forever. But the seasons changed, his coursework completed, and the holidays came. John spent his days over the break with his grandfather and then immediately dove into his dissertation after the first of the year.

His research so far has been remarkably successful, but John just feels empty. The very concept of time travel first intrigued his young mind because it was a way to skip all the boring domestics of his life and fast forward to all the good bits. The intention shifted when he lost his parents to a deep, dark desire to alter the past and bring back what he’d lost. Now, he just wishes he could go back and live in the last few weeks of autumn, repeating each day over and over again, when he was surrounded by the wonderful presence of his blonde companion.

They never made plans for the future, nothing beyond the promise of seeing one another ‘next time,’ until the next time didn’t come. He’s managed to shift his schedule a couple times in the past few weeks to peek in at the diner, but his companion hasn’t been there. He misses her fiercely and wonders if Penny or anyone at Nighthawks would be willing to tell him where to find her.

He resolves to discover that just as soon as this whole weekend is over.

How he’d been named a groomsman, John had no earthly idea. He and Lance are on the same team at Vitex, but beyond that they don’t interact much outside of work. Outside of a pub night here and there, he hasn’t had the time with all his classes and studying. Still, it seems enough to get him into the wedding party.

He’s tied up with wedding events starting tonight with the bachelor party. A sordid affair taking place at any moment in Boom Town, the club behind him, if the groom’s party would just _show up_.

He seriously considers leaving them to it when Lance and the other groomsmen finally appear from the parking lot. They’re already making lewd comments and laughing riotously, but honestly, this is not really John’s scene. It feels like a waste of his time and he wishes it would just be over.

It must show on his face, because his fellow groomsmen pick up on it.

“First time?” Harry asks, bumping his shoulder.

John shrugs. “Not my typical Thursday night.”

Once in from the cold and two pints later, John starts to loosen up just a bit. His surroundings are much what he would expect from an upscale gentleman’s club. Low lights, dark lacquered wood, and chrome. A scantily clad server brings drinks to their table, a black high top complete with tea light candle. There’s a manufactured aura of elegance and exclusivity; in the expense of the alcohol and a few aesthetic details that aim to elevate the club from salacious to posh.

John can find enjoyment in the acrobatic skills of the female dancers, the way they command the catwalk with their sensual presence. It’s an art, requiring more finesse than simply shedding clothing.

He’s mesmerized more by their movements than necessarily their relative nudity, but the boys don’t need to know that. As long as he’s staring, he’s fitting in.

After a couple sets, the DJ mike clicks on for an announcement. “And now,” he narrates in a lively voice. “The gal you’ve all been waiting for… Boom Town. Get ready for… your very own Bad Wolf!”

The regulars in the audience begin howling like wild coyotes. He notices a couple men pulling bills from their wallets in anticipation, nearly salivating as they stare at the empty spotlight cast on the pole in the middle catwalk.

The groom’s party joins in on the howls and hollers. John can only gape silently as the star dancer slinks out on stage.

His blonde companion is Bad Wolf.

Her costume covers more of her body than any of the other dancers… for now. But still, it’s overall less coverage than the sweats she wears to the diner. The black lacy shawl with delicate beading is the first thing to go. She peels the delicate garment off as she prances forward and lets it hit the ground behind her.

The burgundy wrap skirt is next to drop; the sheer fabric billows as it falls to the stage. A sequined black halter top, that barely conceals her cleavage, and matching thong are all that remains of her costume. She sways her hips as she approaches the pole, platform heels clicking with each step.

Reaching out, she grabs the silver pole with one hand while the other lets her hair down. She pauses a moment to shake the golden tresses out over her shoulders, swinging her hips in time with the music. A few wolf-whistles sound in the crowd, encouraging her to get on with the show.

Bad Wolf circles the pole, gaining momentum before launching effortlessly from the ground, flying through the air and somehow ending up with her legs crossed over the pole, spinning down until her feet touch the ground and then rising back up by undulating her hips, giving the audience a perfect view of her bare arse clad only in a scant thong.

Her moves on the pole are nothing short of amazing. It seems she’s upside-down more often than not, straddling the pole and holding her body horizontally with only the strength of her arms or the clenching of her thighs. Sometimes she sways her limbs gracefully, as though swimming through the air, six feet off the ground. At one point she lets go, free-falling so fast her hair sweeps the ground, but her body remains connected to the pole by only one leg, wrapped artfully from thigh to ankle.

There’s a wild, raw energy about her movements; the way they sync with the primal beat of the song, yet are never predictable. One motion flows into the next, guided by a fierce rhythm that evokes her stage name.

The challenging moves get applause and the raunchy ones hoots and catcalls. Through the entire performance she’s always moving, her muscles working and flexing through the routine with expert precision. She’s flawless. Bad Wolf commands the attention of the entire room. She has certainly captured John.

He’s affected by her the way the other dancers failed to entice him; a simple function of chemistry. The spark of attraction for this woman has been burning long before tonight and this new visual stimuli only heightens the simmering desire in his blood. He knows her laugh and the radiance of her genuine smile. Combined with the erotic expressions she’s affecting for the crowds benefit, he can’t help his mind’s eye from imagining where the reality and fantasy may meet.

The pole dance comes to a close with a dynamic spin, landing her spread eagle in a split on the ground. She crawls forward towards the end of the catwalk, the better to collect the cash that’s being waved by her adoring fans.

Smoky, seductive eyes glance over the crowd and John freezes, his heart stuttering to a stop. Does she see him? What would she think of him being here? He’s not the sort of bloke that frequents these places, and he doesn’t want her to think… what? She’s an exotic dancer, this is her trade. Surely she doesn’t think ill of the customers that pay her way.

Still, his chest seizes with panic. This wasn’t the way he hoped to reunite after weeks of not seeing her. Bad Wolf is half naked and exposed, baring her body and sexuality on stage, but even so there’s something altogether more intimate about their booth at the diner. There, it’s just the two of them, talking and laughing together.

Then again, seeing her here reminds him of how little they really know about each other. He doesn’t even know her name -- her real name -- and she still only knows him as the Doctor: self-proclaimed mad scientist.

Back on the catwalk, Bad Wolf straightens from her earlier grinding against the floor and reaches her arms to grasp the front of her top. With a little fiddling, the knot comes loose and she pulls the halter top apart, revealing her breasts to the crowd.

A whole new multitude of bills are being waved her way, but John makes his way to the bathroom, unsolicited arousal and dread warring within him.

The music is muted in the men’s room and he’s grateful for the escape from the sensory overload outside. He splashes cool water on his face from the faucet, leaning heavily on the sink and catching his breath. Meanwhile, the song wraps up outside and the DJ announces last call, with one more set to close out the night.

John runs a hand through his hair, gathering his courage and resolve. He stalks out to his party’s table, grabbing his jacket and muttering some excuse before walking towards the door. He’ll wait out back for as long as it takes. Bad Wolf has to leave the club sometime and go back to the rest of her life. He’s found her again, and he’s not about to let her go.


	4. Almost Like Being in Love

When John rounds the corner, she’s standing against the wall near the back door, dressed in more familiar clothes -- baggy jeans with a grey sweatshirt -- and smoking a cigarette. He shoves his hands in his pockets and approaches slowly. He doesn’t want to spook her, afraid he’ll be mistaken for a drunken client trying to solicit more.

His trainer scuffs on the pavement and she turns to look at him. Recognition lights in her eyes, but then she looks away, puffing out smoke in the opposite direction.

“Hi,” John says, for lack of a better opening line.

She sighs heavily.

“I know.” Taking one last drag, she smashes the cigarette butt against the brick wall behind her and exhales the smoke away from him. “What’s a nice girl like me--”

“No,” he answers quickly and her face screws up in confusion. “I just…” He clears his throat. “I thought maybe you’d be going to breakfast?”

Her lips curl up in a hesitant, hopeful smile that blooms gorgeously into her patented grin. She nods slowly. “Okay.”

“Brilliant!”

He can’t help it, his face lights up with a dopey smile in return and he must look a fool because she laughs heartily at his expression. John doesn’t care, because she grabs her oversized purse from the stairs behind her and saunters over to him. He offers an elbow if she wants to loop her arm through, but instead she reaches down and takes his hand.

His pulse races as their fingers thread together. He falls into step with her without thinking, and it’s not until they’re out on the sidewalk that he realizes they’ve completely missed the parking lot.

“Bit of a long walk,” he suggests conversationally.

She giggles, leaning her head against his shoulder and oh… he might never wash his left arm again. “There’s a chip shop ‘round the block that’s open late.”

“Is that where--” he shuts his mouth with a click before he can finish the sentence.

He’s just gotten her back, he doesn’t want to bring up the absence in between. She tenses for a moment but then relaxes again, keeping in stride.

“You stopped coming. Poppies is closer.”

The decisiveness in her tone begs the matter closed, so John takes a deep breath and holds his tongue. She presses closer to him and he squeezes her hand reassuringly.

“You’re cold.” He can tell in the slight tremble of her body next to his. “Do you want my coat?”

She scoffs. “You’re shivering as it is.”

“No sense in both of us being cold.”

She nods to the storefront a few paces ahead. “We’re already here.”

They scurry through the door quickly, chasing the warmth and the smell of fried food. The shop is busier than Nighthawks, but has a similar retro feel. She approaches the counter and orders a steak pie with chips and John tells the clerk to give him the same. His stomach is so tied in knots, he doubts he’ll eat anyway.

She pays before he can reach for his wallet, pulling cash from a neatly folded stack in her purse. He finds an empty table in the back and she waits for their order. They’re reunited a few moments later when she brings the food over and he feels better than he has in a month.

“You looked great out there.” He blurts it out without thinking. She looks up, eyes wide and curious. “Not that I… dance. I don’t. But it looked amazing.”

She blows on a few chips to cool them off, then focuses intently on eating them. When she speaks, her voice is low and quiet. “How did you find me?”

“I didn’t.” He swallows around the lump forming in his throat. “It was… there’s this colleague. I’m a groomsman, I was dragged along on his stag night.”

“Oh.”

She won’t meet his eyes and her face betrays nothing about what she’s feeling.

He sniffs, staring behind her at some memorabilia lining the wall. “I’m not sorry. Because of tonight, I found you again. I was afraid I wouldn’t. I don’t even know your name.”

“Rose.”

She offers it so freely it takes him a moment to grasp what he’s been given. His eyes train on her face but she’s looking down, picking at the crust of the pie with a plastic fork. He repeats her name, the awe and adoration evident in his voice, and she looks up. Rose bites her lip but the corners of her mouth quirk up in a small smile.

Just as quickly, her eyes flit away and a shadow falls over her face. “I suppose now you’ll want to hear my whole, sad story.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“Good.” She stabs a particularly large piece of steak with her fork. “Because there isn’t one. I love what I do. I’m good at it, and it brings in a lot of money.”

“That’s fantastic.”

“Really? Just like that.” She leans back in her chair, regarding him skeptically.

He shrugs. “It sounds like you enjoy it. And you’re obviously talented enough to be the main attraction at the club.”

“But see… no one understands that. Because a girl can’t choose to be a dancer. She has to down on her luck, or have a dark past, or something went wrong that landed her in a strip joint taking her clothes off for randy men.”

He leans forward, reaching out to take her unoccupied hand. “I’m not here to judge you, Rose. I just want to see you again.”

She smirks, her nose wrinkling adorably.

“Are you asking me out?”

He hums thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t be very villainous of me. Suppose I should throw you over my shoulder and take you back to my lair.”

She laughs and the sound resonates in his chest as though he made the sound.

“That’s why I like you, Doctor. You never say anything I’d expect.”

“John.”

With a slight intake of breath, not quite enough to be a gasp, her eyes dart up to meet his. There’s a warmth there that pulls at him inexplicably, but also an edge of uncertainty.

“Not ‘doctor?’”

“I will be soon,” he explains, rubbing his thumb lightly over her knuckles. “You can call me either.”

“Good.”

He’s pleased to note she relaxes under his touch. A slight air of familiarity settles around them and they’re almost back to the state they were before. Ambiguous friends casually chatting and sharing time together with a comfortable rapport.

“I’m serious, though.” She tilts her head thoughtfully, once again poking the contents of her pie with her fork. “You don’t look at me like a I’m a stripper, or a reject, or an... anything. You’re one of the few people that actually sees me.”

He smiles, swallowing and trying to tamp down his emotions before they overwhelm him.

“You’re brilliant.” He shakes his head absently. “That’s all there is to it.”

The look on her face softens and he finds he’s embarrassingly close to tearing up. He thought he’d lost her and is so incredibly lucky to have found her again. In fact, he should probably be grateful to Lance for this serendipity -- maybe he should consider a better wedding gift?

Rose squeezes his hand, bringing him back to the present.

John understands why she might think his feelings for her would fundamentally change knowing what she does to make ends meet… but as it turns out, it doesn’t. He’s seen his fair share of the strange, shady, and extraordinary things the world has to offer once someone opens their eyes. And he learned a long time ago to hold on to the things that matter while fate lets you have them.

Bad Wolf or blonde diner companion, both are Rose. And he was just as attracted to her, and captivated by her, on stage as he’s been since the moment he saw her smile.

As they’re breaking down walls tonight and learning more about one another, there’s one thing John’s never been brave enough to ask. It seems tonight’s a good a time as any, before they hopefully proceed further.

“And as for, um…” He purses his lips, trying to find the right words. “Well. Seeing one another on a more regular basis. Is that something you’re… are you amenable to that?”

She levels him with a decisive look. “No, I don’t have a boyfriend,” she confirms, in response to his unspoken question. “Not for a long time. But I’m not looking for a quick shag either.”

“Oh!” He flushes nearly scarlet. “We don’t have to-- I mean, if you don’t want…”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want.” The heated look in her eyes sends a pleasant shiver up his spine and oh _fuck_ if one look from Rose is all it takes to fire him up this quickly he’s done for. “It’s just if that happens, I want everything that goes along with that.”

“It’s yours.”

Her brows furrow in puzzlement. “What?”

“Everything. Anything you want.” The words pour out from his mouth unbidden, she’s opened the door and everything he’s never said all these months is rushing to come out. “Rose, I…”

He finally stops himself, knowing what he really wants to say is too much too soon. She seems to understand anyway; she smiles conspiratorially.

“Yeah?”

He swallows, trying to calm the double-time beat of his heart. “Yes.”

She smiles but then clears her throat, a mask of all-business coming over her features.

“I’m not going to quit.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“I work nights, so we won’t see each other much during the day unless I’m off.”

“I work during the day. I do research in the evenings for most of the week.”

“You’re gonna have to kiss me.” She nearly breaks the facade when his eyes widen comically at the change in subject. “Just to be sure we’re compatible.”

“Rose.” He smiles and if her resulting smile is anything to go by, they’re both grinning like loons. “It would be my pleasure.”


	5. I've Got You Under My Skin

“I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer. So, strip.”

This is absolutely _not_ what he expected when she invited him back to the club after closing. But now he’s standing alone on stage while the Bad Wolf herself sits in the center of the empty club floor, leaning backwards on the hind legs of the chair and leering at him; queen of the club.

John puts on his best pout, complete with puppy dog eyes and protruding lower lip, uttering her name in a pleading tone that he’s disparaged to note is on the infantile side of whinging.

“Uh-uh.” She shakes her head, clicking her tongue disapprovingly. “You got to see my body, now it’s my turn.”

Rose gestures impatiently at his feet and with a huff, he reaches down to unlace his trainers. Once loosened, he steps out of his shoes with a big of wiggling and hopping. Aiming for efficiency, John simultaneously extricates himself from his leather jacket, tossing it to the side in a gentle arc that lands it on the side of the stage with a thump and a clatter of the zipper.

His gaze returns forward when he catches her muffling laughter in the back of her hand.

“What?” He throws his arms out in vexation. “You said to strip!”

With that she sputters and giggles, unable to hold back. “You move with all the grace of a baby deer taking its first steps. I believe you when you say you can’t dance.”

“I said I don’t,” he clarifies in a low voice. “Not that I can’t.”

“Then put some rhythm in it, Bambi!” She smirks, wagging her eyebrows suggestively.

He scoffs, muttering “I like ‘Doctor’ better.” She’s looking at him expectantly and he fidgets under her scrutiny. “Can I at least get some music?”

Rose looks over her shoulder towards the DJ booth. “Sound guy’s gone home.”

She holds up one finger asking him to wait while she digs out her phone. After a bit of scrolling, she lays the device on the table, and the opening bars of “ _Toxic_ ” ring out from the small speaker.

“Funny,” he deadpans.

She just grins, all tongue and teeth, spreading her arms out and puffing up her chest to execute an exaggerated shimmy. John can’t help a faint smile at her enthusiasm. He starts on the buttons of his blue corduroy shirt.

Rose regards him more seriously, tapping a finger on the table in time with the beat of the song.

“I know you’ve got questions. Ask ‘em.”

He raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “A question per article of clothing?”

She shrugs, feigning nonchalance, but he can see the smirk tugging at her lips.

“If that’s how you want to play.”

John nods faintly in agreement, pulling the now unbuttoned shirt open and maneuvering it over his shoulders. He licks his lips and decides on the first question.

“How long have you been doing this?”

“I’ve been taking classes for six years and have worked for the past four. Before that, I did gymnastics. Gave me a head start on the fundamentals.”

He pulls his arms from the sleeves and throws his shirt at her with a bit more finesse than before. It misses, catching on a chair just to her left, and Rose giggles.

“So many layers,” she says, nodding to the clothes he’s still got on.

“It’s winter.”

Given what she’s prone to wearing, he feels the need to remind her of that fact. Without warning, she twists around in her seat, pulling off her sweatshirt and placing it on a nearby chair seat.

John gapes, moving his mouth silently a few times before words finally come. “What are you doing?”

“Making you feel better.” She shrugs one shoulder, as if her stripping down garment by garment with him is no big deal. “Solidarity.”

He sucks in air through his teeth, feeling all the more exposed despite the layers he does still have on. “Honestly, that might make things a bit more difficult.”

“Wow.” Rose guffaws. “On a scale of one to ten, how much did you try to not say ‘harder’ just then?”

“Eleven?”

She laughs good-naturedly, waving for him to continue. He pulls his grey jumper over his head, unable to stop the t-shirt beneath from riding up, but making sure it stays on. When the jumper is wrestled from his arms, he pulls down the shirt and is pleased to note the appreciative gaze of his one-woman audience.

“Did you always want to do this?”

Rose wrinkles her nose and brings her thumb up to nibble on the nail.

“You mean as a little girl, did I always dream of taking my clothes off for men?”

He takes a deep breath, sorting out his query. “I guess I’m wondering when you knew this is what you wanted.”

“It’s not something I planned on. I went to an amateur night with some girlfriends way back and it just… clicked. I was a natural. I signed up for classes and found out what I needed to do so I could make money from it.”

John nods, taking this information in. His next question burns in his chest, it’s something he’s dying to know but is afraid to ask, lest he knock down the fragile trust they’ve built between them. As it turns out, he can’t stop the words from bubbling up.

“What else do you do, besides dancing?”

Rose frowns and he gulps, afraid he’s gone too far. She nods towards his torso. “You’ve got another layer to lose before your next question.”

The first song has since ended and there’s another pop hit he vaguely recognizes sounding from her phone. The tempo is a bit slower, the quieter extremes of bass and treble fading into white noise to fill the space between them. John divests his last shirt quickly, anxious for her response.

“I’m an entertainer,” she explains calmly. “My talents are on the stage. I can work the pole, or a chair, or just the floor, but I’m the type men want to see _move_. They don’t want flat planes and muscles close up, they want curvy hips and big tits.”

He smiles softly. “Not all of us.”

She chuckles, biting her lip to fight the smile threatening to break out.

“I think you’re just biased.”

“Oh, absolutely!”

Rose ducks her head bashfully, hiding the pink dusting her cheeks. She pushes her chair back from the table, stands, and crosses the room towards the catwalk. With practiced ease, she hops up a few feet from him and toes off her shoes.

“Come on, home stretch.”

She smiles and — as if he needs such encouragement — takes off her vest top to reveal a charcoal sports bra. John inhales sharply, regressing to the eager teenager playing ‘show me yours’ for the first time. He desperately tries to keep his body’s natural reaction in check and echo Rose’s relaxed manner. It’s nothing but a bit of casual nudity between soon-to-be-more-than-friends.

He looks down the length of his bare stomach and frowns skeptically at his jeans.

“You’re not going to make me take of my socks, are you?” John asks conversationally. “This ground is probably filthy.”

Her brows knit in concern.

“It’s the floor down there you have to worry about,” she says, pointing. “The stage and the poles are all cleaned regularly. Have to be, it’s for safety.”

He nods absently, the inquiry mostly a stall for time anyway. John takes one last deep breath, gathers resolve, and goes to work at the fastenings of his jeans. He doesn’t look at her, just focuses on shrugging the denim down his hips until it falls to the stage floor and he steps out of the garment completely.

When he does look up, Rose looks positively giddy.

“Give us a spin.”

He chuckles and turns around, giving her a three-sixty view of his body clad only in pants and, incidentally, socks. She hums her appreciation and some part of him is relieved.

“Gorgeous.” He’s not sure if she’s referring to the situation or the subject, but he sincerely hopes it’s the latter. “Now we’re square. _Ish_.”

He raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “Ish?”

“You saw my arse,” she protests on a laugh, leaning over to take a not-so-secret peek at his bum. And if he turns just a bit to give her a better view, _well_ … “But we’ll get there.” Her face screws up for a second before she’s overcome with a well-timed yawn. “Not tonight. I’m knackered.”

John’s heart sinks at the thought of parting from her. It’s been a long night and as much as he wanted it to fly by at the beginning, now he doesn’t want it to end.

Rose dresses quickly and hops down from the catwalk, gathering his errant clothes for him. He gets his jeans back on and finds his undershirt by the time she has the bundle ready. He sits down on the edge and she hands him the pile.

“Can I drive you home?”

He puts all his hope into the question, desperate for just a little more time with her tonight.

Thankfully, she nods her assent. “Yeah.”

Then, she leans forward, capturing his mouth in a sweet kiss. Rose keeps the contact chaste, just the gentle press of lips, but she lingers and he feels the smile spread on her face before she pulls away.

John blinks, trying to make sense of the joy and desire coursing through him. “What was that for?”

“Because I can.” She grins at him, shaking her head as though in disbelief. “Because you’re my Doctor.”

His hands abandon the pile of clothes in his lap, reaching out to her. One finds her hand and the other cups her face, running his thumb along the curve of her cheek. He can envision sonnets, entire symphonies written on his heart, just from the small kindnesses this woman has shown him. They've a long road ahead, but for now he's just privileged to be at the start. For the first time he can remember, he’s hopeful, excited… happy. Thanks to her.

“I am.”

 


End file.
